


Date Night

by Gypsy_Rose_2014



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, D/s, Discipline, Erotic Games, F/M, Light BDSM, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-10-23 19:15:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10725498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gypsy_Rose_2014/pseuds/Gypsy_Rose_2014
Summary: During "The Hiatus" between S2 and 3.Molly Hooper is being consumed by guilt. She knows that Sherlock Holmes is alive and well, but she can't offer any words of comfort to their grieving friends. And it's killing her. The only thing that soothes her soul and assuages her guilt is date night.





	1. The Visit

**Author's Note:**

> I own none of the characters.

_Molly spied the clock on the wall just over the crash doors. 7:45. She heaved an exasperated sigh and tapped her fingertips on the file in front of her. Her shift ended forty-five minutes ago, but no one had come to relieve her. It happened a lot. More than she cared to think about, but it didn’t used to bother her. She didn’t used to have someplace to be. That was probably why her co-workers felt like it was an okay thing to do. Mousey Molly didn’t have anything better to do, so just go in whenever you feel like it. It made her so angry! Maybe she should just go ahead and tell them all what was going on._

_But of course she couldn’t. She couldn’t tell anyone about what had really happened to Sherlock Holmes. It was important that everyone in London, including her closest friends, thought that he was dead, having thrown himself off the roof of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital last year. Only a few of them knew the secret and they couldn’t even talk to one another. And it didn’t help that every time she saw John Watson she ended up ugly-crying in the loo. She wanted to tell him so badly. He was just so… sad. He was obviously in pain and she knew exactly how to take it away, but she couldn’t. She’d promised, but the guilt was driving her mad._

_Her only reprieve was date night._

_She never knew when it would happen. No planning. No agenda. Just a simple text on her mobile from an unknown number. It was never the same number twice._

_“7:15.”_

_That was the text she’d gotten this afternoon. No signature. No address. She didn’t need one. She knew who it was and what it meant._

**OoOoOo**

The first time she hadn’t even gotten a text.

And given the state she’d found him in, she wasn’t surprised. Molly Hooper had never expected in a thousand years to find Sherlock Holmes lying on her doorstep in the middle of the night, but there he was. She didn’t even recognize him at first. His hair was a mess of wild curls and there was at least two weeks’ growth of beard on his cheek. The former consulting detective that had once been so neat and clean was now wearing a pair of ripped, dirty jeans and a tattered t-shirt that hung off his shoulder.

“My God, Sherlock!” she exclaimed, rushing to him and kneeling down. “Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me. Who else would it be?” he mumbled. His speech was garbled and when he looked into the light, she could see why. His lip was split open and bleeding over his chin.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asked.

“A very long story,” he said. She threw his arm over her shoulder and helped him stand. It was a struggle and he almost toppled them both before managing to get his feet under him. “I’ll tell you all about it later.”

He smelled gamey. A combination of sweat and dirt. It was pungent, but as she breathed it in, the scent gave her the strangest feeling in her chest. It swelled and became liquid, running down her throat and into her belly.

Molly helped him inside and set him down on a chair in the kitchen. “Sorry, but I don’t want you to sit on the squishy furniture just yet.”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Sherlock murmured.

“Don’t move,” she commanded, throwing her scarf and coat toward the rack in the corner. “I’m going to put the kettle on and get my first aid kit.”

“Don’t bother,” he said. “I just need to rest.”

“No, what you need is a doctor,” she said.

“You _are_ a doctor.”

“I work with dead people. And despite all appearances, you’re very much alive.” She turned from the kettle and offered a smile. For some reason she didn’t feel awkward or shy around him now. Perhaps it was his scruffy look or the fact that she’d helped fake his death barely a month before.

He didn’t look happy, but didn’t offer more protests. In fact, by the time Molly arrived back in the kitchen with the first aid kit, Sherlock was almost asleep with his head leaned against the wall. She knelt in front of him and began wiping the blood from his face. Surprisingly, he just sat there and let her do it. For a moment, she wasn’t even sure if he was conscious. She cleaned the blood from his lips and chin, then his cheek, and finally the deep gash over his eye. She was very aware of his closeness as she stroked the flannel over his brow.

“You should have worn your gloves,” he said. His voice was so sudden that Molly nearly dropped everything.

“What?”

“Your gloves. You walked all the way from the Tube station with no gloves. Your hands are freezing.”

“Oh,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m sorry.”

“No bother,” he said. “It feels good, actually.”

“You’re feverish. How long have you been like this?”

Sherlock groaned as he raised his arm to look at his watch. “Three or four days…”

“Your eye has been gashed up like this for three or four days?” Molly gaped at him, both disgusted and saddened that he hadn’t taken care of his injuries whatsoever.

“No,” he replied. “My stomach has been gashed up like this for three or four days. My eye just happened last night.”

“Oh God…” She started to scold him, but he was already pulling the remnants of what passed for his shirt over his head and revealing the real problem.

Sherlock’s torso looked like a topographical map of the Himalayas that someone had spilled ink on. His chest and arms were a near-continuous bruise highlighted with a shallow cut here and there, but across his midsection was a brutal-looking knife wound. It was obvious he’d tried to bandage it up, but the gauze was soaked through and all around it was red. Molly could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “What in hell happened to you?”

“You should have seen the other guy…” he said.

“Sherlock! You could have blood poisoning! Broken ribs! Why didn’t you go to a hospital?” she shrieked.

He grasped her wrist tightly and pulled her close. “I’m sorry, Molly,” he slurred. He sounded intoxicated, but it wasn’t chemicals addling his brain. “I’m sorry… don’t be mad…I didn’t have anywhere else to go…”

She pulled the bandage off and cringed. The wound was still seeping blood and something else that looked suspiciously like pus. “Oh Sherlock… this is super-infected. We need to get you to a hospital…”

“No!” he roared, trying to stand up and failing miserably. “No hospitals. Then everyone will know…”

“I’ll take you to Bart’s. I know one of the trauma doctors there. He’ll keep it quiet…”

“No!”

Molly laid a hand over his. “All right. Just take it easy. I’ll… I’ll do my best.”

**OoOoOo**

Hours later Molly was curled up on the couch reading a book. She’d managed to stitch Sherlock up and get him clean. Luckily, she still had part of a bottle of antibiotic from a root canal she’d had a few months ago. If the infection wasn’t any better in the morning, Molly had resolved to call Mycroft. Surely his nibs could find a secret doctor for his little brother. She’d tried to convince Sherlock earlier to let her call him, but he wouldn’t hear of it, citing that there was no reason why she couldn’t write him a prescription herself. He wasn’t supposed to be in London and he didn’t want to see Mycroft. Realizing that talking to him in this state was roughly akin to talking to a tantruming toddler, Molly decided to give in until the morning. She’d tucked him into her bed and sat up in the lounge, reading a book by the flickering light of the telly. In another hour she’d go in and check on him and give him another dose of medicine. She yawned and stretched, pulling her afghan closer around herself.

Molly didn’t realize she’d fallen asleep until she heard the shuffling in the kitchen. She jerked herself upright, peering around in the pitch darkness. She could just barely make out the outline of Sherlock bending into her refrigerator. When he came back up, he had a stack of plastic containers in each hand and a bottle of water perched under his chin. As he turned to set his bounty on the table, he noticed that Molly was sitting there staring.

“Uhm… I was hungry…” he said.

Molly smiled. “Help yourself. Evidently you’re not going to die if you’re hungry.”

“Not tonight, anyway.” He rummaged around in the boxes for several minutes before choosing a couple and making his way into the lounge to sit next to Molly on the sofa. He offered one of the glasses perched between his fingers and poured them both glasses of water. “Care to join me for a midnight snack?”

“I thought you never ate.”

“Only when I’m working. But I think work is effectively suspended for a day or so.” He opened up one of the boxes and sniffed. “Ugh… you really shouldn’t try your hand at international cuisine, Molly.”

“What are you talking about?”

“This attempt at Chinese stir fry. You replaced the rice wine vinegar with olive oil.” Even as he was insulting her food, he’d already devoured most of the chicken. “It’s terrible.”

“Then why are you eating it?”

“I’m hungry.”

She watched him in amazement as he worked his way through first one plastic container to the next. Molly had never seen him eat so much so quickly. Evidently it had been quite a while since he’d eaten. How could he let himself get like this? So run down and sickly.

“Why haven’t you been eating?” he asked after a time.

“What makes you think I haven’t?” She looked away, not wanting to meet the silvery blade of his gaze.

“Well I’ve eaten almost three containers of leftover meals just now and there were at least three more in the refrigerator. You live alone and have for quite a while, so normally you cook only for yourself and there isn’t any leftover food. I’ve watched you in the lab, so I know you weren’t taking it there for lunch. You always eat in the hospital cafeteria for lunch.” He paused and reached out, taking the tip of her chin between his fingers and turning her face to his. “So why aren’t you eating?”

She didn’t want to tell him. He was carrying enough of a burden right now without her piling more on top. How could she say that everything she ate turned to ash in her mouth? How could she tell him that she wasn’t all that upset about giving up her bed because she hadn’t slept in it for weeks? Guilt and longing were not pleasant bedfellows. “I… I just…”

“Don’t stammer, Molly. It isn’t becoming.”

She didn’t realize that there were tears on her cheeks until he swept them away with the edge of his thumb. “I can’t…” she spat, finally dissolving into sobs. “I can’t tell you…”

“Why? Shouldn’t we be past all this now? I mean, you helped me fake my death. It’s hardly the time for secrecy. I would just deduce it out of you, but after the last time, I thought you might object…”

“I hate you!” she spat finally through a torrent of tears, cutting him off in mid-thought.

He looked genuinely taken aback. Of all the things she could have said, that was perhaps the one thing he didn’t expect. “I… don’t understand…”

She wiped furiously at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I do. I hate you for making me do this. For making me carry this secret! For letting me bear the burden of your guilt! You have no idea, Sherlock!”

“Molly… I…”

Her words were coming in shuddering gasps now. “Do you have… any idea…what it’s like… to see John… or Greg? To see their… pain and thinking… that they caused you to…”

“That’s ridiculous. Even if I had jumped off that roof, it was no one’s fault but Moriarty’s.”

“They don’t see it that way! Anderson’s gone off the deep end! He resigned his job and disappeared! John goes to your grave every day. _Every_. Day. Mrs. Hudson can’t get through a phone call without weeping. Did you know they had to put her on tranquilizers for the first couple of weeks? And guess who they all want to commiserate with? I want to tell them so badly, but I can’t! I can’t tell them anything because I promised you! I promised you because you knew I’d do anything for you! Anything you ask!” Sherlock pushed everything aside and put an arm around her shoulder. The movement was awkward, clearly he wasn’t used to being a comfort, but she turned and buried her face in his shoulder. Heavy sobs rattled her chest as she gripped his shirt in her hands.

For what seemed an eternity she wept against him. She was almost relieved that finally she could let this poison out on the only person that could hear it. He didn’t stop her or try to make a clever joke. He let her cry until she was spent and sniffling beside him.

“I am sorry, Molly,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “I wish I knew what to do.”

“There’s nothing to do,” she sniffled. “The situation is still the same. I’ll cry to you tonight, but tomorrow you’ll be gone and I’ll have to go back to being the villain…”

“You aren’t a villain, Molly. You helped me save their lives.”

“Did I? Because John doesn’t look saved.” She gave a bitter chuckle. “You know, I haven’t been to church since my father died, but I thought maybe going to a priest might help. I got all the way into the confessional and then couldn’t say a word. I can’t even confess my sins.”

“It isn’t your fault, Molly. And sometimes being smart isn’t the easiest option. All of you would be in danger if my secret got out…”

“ _Our_ secret, Sherlock. Ours.”

He nodded and took her hand, warming it between his. “What can I do?”

She shrugged and sniffled once more, using an old tissue to wipe at her nose. “I don’t know. I remember being a child and getting into trouble. The worst part was the guilt. I never kept things from my parents because I couldn’t bear it. The day I locked my cousin in the shed, I finally just confessed because I couldn’t stand the guilt of lying to everyone.”

“What happened? After you confessed, I mean.”

Molly chuckled. “It was the only time my father ever hit me. I still remember it. I remember thinking, while I was being punished, ‘At least I don’t have to hide it anymore.’ Isn’t that strange, Sherlock? That confessing and then the inevitable punishment that followed, actually felt good. I felt better afterwards.”

“I don’t think that’s strange at all,” he replied. “It makes sense, actually. Of course, as a child I always knew it was better _not_ to get caught.” He offered a grin so mischievous that Molly couldn’t help but return it.

“Of course.”

He leaned in and kissed her forehead. “You’re going to be all right, Molly Hooper.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure,” he replied, pulling another tissue from the box beside him and offering it to her. “Here. You look a mess.” He held the tissue to her nose and instructed her to blow. It was childish, but she did as she was told. Funny, she always did what she was told when Sherlock was involved. He was always so self-assured and while in the past that had made her nervous and shy, now she found it immensely comforting.

“What can I do?” he asked finally. “How can I make this easier for you? You’re my friend, Molly, and I really don’t endeavor to make you miserable. I don’t think I could bear it if I thought you were here wasting away on my behalf.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said with an exhausted sigh.

“Will you?”

She shrugged. “Are you going away again?”

“Soon. But not tonight,” he replied. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

She yawned and nodded, leaning against his shoulder. Suddenly it occurred to her that they were all each other had right now. “Please stay. Stay and tell me what to do. You always know what to do.”


	2. Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which their relationship takes an odd, yet delicious turn. And Sherlock takes in a little tawdry romance reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own none of the characters. I'm just borrowing them.

_“Where R U?” the text screamed in bright white letters that burned her eyes. It was nearly eight o’clock. He wouldn’t be so patient for long. In another ten minutes she might get another text saying simply “Goodbye” or perhaps nothing at all. Sherlock didn’t like to wait. Not to mention that their little rendezvous were dependent on secrecy and if he spent too much time climbing in her window or waiting outside her door, someone was bound to notice. Besides, the pressure made it that much more interesting._

_“Sorry, Molly!” Finally her relief crashed through the doors of the morgue, his lab coat half on. “I got here as quick as I could.”_

_“Oh yeah? You live a block away, David. Took you an hour to get here, eh?”_

_He offered a sheepish grin and threw his satchel down. “Sorry. I had to get dinner and it took forever. You didn’t have someplace to go did you?”_

_Molly rolled her eyes and grabbed her shoulder bag. “No,” she replied. “No place at all.”_

OoOoOo

The morning dawned, gray and gloomy in the window. At first Molly had no idea where she was, but a swipe of her hand revealed that she was lying in her own bed. It had been so long since she’d awakened there. Most mornings a great pain in her shoulder acted as the alarm that got her up and moving to work. A pain caused by twisting herself into a tiny ball on her sofa. But this morning there was no pain. The gnawing sensation in her belly, while still there, was not burning her straight through. It had dulled to a throb. Perhaps she might heal after all.

Molly sat up with a yawn and a full stretch. So far this was the best she’d felt in months. It was almost like she was waking up for the first time in ages. She inhaled the sharp scent of fresh coffee and her mouth watered. Suddenly she was so very hungry. Before she could follow it into the kitchen, a freshly-shaven Sherlock came into her room bearing a tray of coffee and toast with jam. He almost looked like the Sherlock she remembered. His curly hair had been chopped back into shape, albeit somewhat sloppy. He was still bruised, but his injuries looked much better. Though he was thin, whatever he’d been doing had made his body hard and muscular.

“Finally,” he said. “I was beginning to think you’d never get up.

“Why are you bringing me breakfast?” she blurted. He looked hurt and she immediately wished she could take it back. “I mean… wow! Breakfast!”

“A bit late,” he said, setting the tray down on the nightstand. “But I suppose I’ll forgive you for now.”

She smiled genuinely for the first time in weeks. “Thank you.” She leaned over, reaching for one of the coffee cups, but he smacked her hand before she could get to it. “Ow!” she squeaked. “What did you do that for?”

“This is my breakfast food, silly. I went out and risked life and limb for this coffee and jam.” He made a big show of taking a bite of the toast covered in gooey strawberry jam and gulping down the coffee. It all smelled so divine and Molly couldn’t help her mouth watering.

“Sherrrlock…” she whined. “It’s very mean of you not to share.”

“There’s food in your kitchen, Molly. You could always get up and make yourself some breakfast.” His eyes sparkled with mischief as he sat down on the edge of her bed and continued his morning munch.

Molly sat up on her knees, leaning on his shoulder for support as she leaned over. Her mouth was close to his ear as she whispered. “Please can I have some of your toast? I mean, I did help you fake your death. And have been lying for you for months now. And I let you sleep in my bed.”

Sherlock peered at her from beneath an arched eyebrow. He seemed to consider her plea for a moment and put his toast aside. He brushed off his hands and turned to her. “You’re absolutely right, Molly.”

“I am?”

“Mmm,” he replied with a nod. “So lie back, then.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Lie back.” When she hesitated, he reached out and pushed her gently backward against the pillows.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?” Molly asked with a giggle.

“Sharing my breakfast. Now close your eyes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just do it.”

“But...”

“Don’t you trust me?”

“Of course I do,” she stammered. “I just don’t understand what this has to do with breakfast.”

“It has nothing to do with breakfast and everything to do with your doing what I tell you. Last night that’s what you said you wanted. So lie back and close your eyes. Now.”

Molly stared at him for another moment, feeling that her eyes were going to pop right out of their sockets and roll across the floor. It finally dawned on her that he wasn’t kidding. She would have to follow this game to its conclusion if only to satisfy her own curiosity. She lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes. For a moment, nothing happened. She thought maybe he’d left the room. “Sherlock?” When he didn’t respond, she opened one eye slightly.

“This doesn’t bode well, Mouse. You can’t even follow the simplest of instructions.” Before she could reply, he leaned over her and fastened a slip of cloth over her eyes.

“Sherlock, seriously. What are you doing?” she asked.

“Since you can’t be trusted to keep your eyes closed, I shall have to be proactive.” The cloth was cool and smooth and smelled like the cinnamon potpourri she kept in a dish on the dresser. Evidently it was that hideous thing that she’d been given as a secret Santa gift the Christmas before. It had been hanging over the bedpost ever since. “There. You should be properly blind now.”

“How am I supposed to eat like this?”

“Carefully. Now, stay there a moment and don’t move the blindfold. As you’ve run out of scarves, binding your wrists would be inconvenient and time consuming.”

Molly laughed, but suddenly had the thought that he might not be joking. The thought was intriguing and she felt a tiny flutter across her midsection.

The bed bounced when he rose and Molly could hear him pad down the hall and into the kitchen. Dishes rattled and cabinets opened and closed. What could he possibly be doing in there? Whatever it was, it wasn’t long before she felt the bed bounce again as he sat down.

“Sherlock, if you squish food in my face or something, I’m going to be so angry…”

“I wouldn’t do that. Don’t you trust me? Now open your mouth.”

She only hesitated a moment before doing as he asked. To his credit, he didn’t shove the bit of toast into her mouth, but placed a small bit on her tongue. The strawberry jam was incredibly sweet and she could feel the corners of her jaw tighten. She chewed slowly, savoring the taste before opening her mouth for more.

“Oh, you are hungry,” he said, placing another bite on her lip.

“Mmmhmm,” she answered, the sticky jam coating her tongue and making it hard to speak.

“Tea?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Ask for it,” Sherlock said.

“What?”

“Ask for it,” he said, his voice never wavering.

Molly heaved an exasperated sigh. “Give me a sip of tea, please.”

“That wasn’t a question,” Sherlock said. “That was a command and I’ll thank you to leave the commanding to me.” She didn’t speak for several seconds, licking her lips and wondering if he was being serious. Feeding her like a child? When did their relationship take such an odd turn? “Ask for it, Mouse.”

Mouse? She bit the inside of her cheek. She wasn’t sure when he started calling her Mouse, but she liked it. Maybe that’s what he called her in his head. It wasn’t unlike Sherlock to get his thoughts and reality mixed up. “Uhm… I… May I have a sip of tea now?” she said, a slight tremble in her voice.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.” She held out her hand for the cup, but he didn’t give it to her. His hand closed over hers and gently placed it across her middle. Apparently he wasn’t going to let her sip her own tea either. Molly could feel the steam against her nose. It smelled divine. The boy knew how to make a cup of tea. She wasn’t sure how to receive the sip, but her questions were answered when the edge of the porcelain grazed her lower lip. He tipped the cup slowly, letting Molly sip at the warm tea. When she was done, she tipped her head back against the pillow and he took the hint.

When she opened her mouth again, he offered something wet. It slipped along the crease of her lips, cool and smooth. It was small and when he pressed it between, she could taste the bitter tobacco on the tips of his fingers. The tiny round berry burst in her mouth when she bit down and her eyes fluttered with the sweetness. “Mmm…”

“Oh we like blueberries.”

“Mmmhmm,” Molly said. “Can I have another?”

He obliged, placing another berry on her offered tongue. The tip swirled along his fingertip, adding to the delectable flavor of the plump fruit. He fed her more blueberries followed by sips of tea. After several moments, it seemed the most natural thing in the world.

“Something different,” he said. This time he offered something warm from a fork. Salty sausage: one of Molly’s favorites.

“You cooked?”

“God no,” he said. “The café on the corner does a lovely breakfast.”

“How did you get in with no one seeing you?”

“I’m known for being a master of disguise.” He tapped the bit of meat against her lip, coaxing her to open her mouth.

“Why are you doing this, Sherlock?” she asked, swallowing.

“Doing what?”

“Being nice to me.”

She heard him exhale, as if he were considering his answer carefully. “I never meant to be unkind to you, Molly. I always… I mean…you’re my…” Suddenly he didn’t seem so sure of himself and she could hear the slight tremble in his voice. “Look, you helped me. So now, I want to help you.”

“Quid pro quo?”

“Exactly. I never meant to make you feel so… If I can lead you through this dark place, then I will. By whatever means necessary.”

She wished she could see his face as he said these words. The underlying truth would sparkle in his eyes and she would know his heart for sure. Perhaps that was his purpose all along with the blindfold. He wanted to be able to say what he liked and do what he liked without her having to see him. And she’d always been able to see him so clearly.

“I trust that you’ll eat this well when I’m gone,” Sherlock said. “You look thin and pale.”

Molly sighed. GONE flashed in her head in angry red letters. She didn’t want to think about Sherlock leaving again. While he was here, she could push those thoughts of guilt to the side. Once he was gone she knew that she’d be swallowed up by the darkness again. “I’m not sure,” she said finally.

“Oh?”

“I just haven’t felt much like eating lately. I suppose I just let it slide.” Molly realized for the first time that she’d let all sorts of things slide.

“Unacceptable,” Sherlock said. “When I come back, I should expect that you’ll have gained back at least seven of the fifteen pounds you’ve lost.”

“Twelve. I’ve only lost twelve.”

“Even so. It isn’t healthy, Mouse.” He paused. The bed bounced once as he rummaged around for something on the nightstand. “Damn.”

“What?”

“I dropped the spoon.” He was flustered. Sherlock Holmes was never clumsy. Even off his head on drugs he was the picture of grace and agility. “No matter.”

“I’m getting full anyway,” Molly said. “It’s all right.”

“No. You need to eat. Open your mouth.”

“Sherlock, it’s really fine…”

“Open. Your mouth,” he said. He was close. So very close. She could feel his breath against her cheek as he spoke to her. If she moved even a little, they would collide. His voice was so firm, so definite that she knew she had no choice but to obey him. She opened her mouth slightly and his fingertips slipped along the inside of her lip. They were covered with thick, gooey yogurt. It seemed odd at first, but the flavor mixed with that bittersweetness of his skin was the most delicious thing she’d ever tasted. She wanted more, licking at his fingers until there was nothing left. He offered another bit and she accepted it eagerly until she was lapping at his hand, suckling at his fingertips. She could feel bits of the cold yogurt dripping down her chin.

He leaned forward and pulled the blindfold away. Their eyes met. This time Molly didn’t look away. All that had happened steeled her resolve. “You were hungry after all,” he said.

“I can’t seem to get enough lately,” she said.

“Don’t be greedy.” He reached out to wipe the yogurt from her chin and she grabbed his hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing gently. He tried to pull away at first, but after a moment he allowed her to press his palm against her cheek.

Sweet relief washed over her. Her whole body relaxed with just this simple touch of his hand. The warmth of his palm caressing her cheekbone. His long fingers twisting in the thin curl just over her ear. “I am greedy,” she whispered. “A greedy brat that will never have enough of you.”

“Don’t say things you can’t possibly mean, Molly Hooper. You’re obviously fatigued.”

“Don’t. Let me be brave, just this once. Kiss me.”

“Molly…”

“Shut up. Just do it. Just once and I’ll never ask again. Please.”

Sherlock leaned in and pressed his mouth against hers. Just a simple caress of his lips against hers, barely a whisper. Molly breathed deeply, taking in his scent and the taste of his mouth. A sensation so long unrequited was finally fulfilled and she could feel her insides shudder. Her heart pounded in her breast and every molecule of her flesh awakened. She leaned into the kiss, opening her mouth to invite him inside. The tip of his tongue swiped over hers gently before pulling back.

Sherlock glanced at the clock beside them. “You’ll need to be getting up, Mouse. Lest you be late to work.”

“Maybe I’m off.”

He gave her that look of amused derision that had so often earned angry exasperation from John Watson. “Really?”

“Ugh. Don’t deduce me. It’s too early.”

“Then get up and change.” He rose from the bed, taking his tray of breakfast with him. She watched him walk away, still dizzy from the kiss. For a rumored virgin he was very adept. Molly resolved not to think too much about what had just happened. If she gave it much thought, she’d be sick. To think that she, Molly Hooper, had practically confessed to every secret wish was enough to make her stomach turn.

And now she couldn’t wait to do it again.

When she emerged from the shower a half-hour later, Sherlock was lying on her sofa reading a book. She blushed seeing that it was some kind of tawdry romance novel that she’d been trying to read for months with little success. “I uh… I think I’m going… you know… to work now.”

“Goodbye,” he said, not looking up. “You know, the woman in this book really should spend less time talking to her inner goddess and more time doing a criminal background check on this guy.”

Molly smirked. She’d had exactly the same thought. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“Most likely. That is, if you don’t mind a dead man rattling around in your flat while you’re gone.”

“Just don’t answer the phone. And be sure to take another dose of that antibiotic. I’ll try to bring more from work. Are you sure you don’t want me to call your brother?”

“If you do, I’ll have to kill you. I’m sorry, those are the rules.” He turned the page of the book, still not looking up at her. “I can assure you that I won’t be up to any…” He paused, reading from the book, “Kinky fuckery. Strictly vanilla recuperating.”

Molly chuckled. “Good to know.” She grabbed her coat and started out the door. “I’ll bring Chinese for dinner.”

He answered with a grunt.


	3. An Experiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly and Sherlock come to an understanding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own none of the characters.

_It never failed. Whenever you were in a hurry, there were never any cabs available. The joys of living in London. As she stood on the sidewalk, she sent Sherlock a quick text: “I’m on my way.” He didn’t respond, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. He liked to play this game with her. Making her think that he’d gone away. But it had been several months since his last visit. It was pretty likely that he would wait. Of course, when she made him wait, it only made the game that much more fun. By the time she got there, he’d be growly and aggressive. Growly and aggressive Sherlock was one of Molly’s favorite things._

_7:45. Her mobile phone screamed the time in bright white numbers that hurt her eyes. She couldn’t get to him fast enough. Date night was always an unpredictable and exciting evening, but it always ended with tender kisses and the warmth of his arms. And it had been so long._

_“Damn!” she shouted to the wind as another cab flew past her. She had to get home!_

_OoOoOoOo_

When Molly stepped out of the Tube station, she was immediately reminded that she’d forgotten her scarf and gloves. The late autumn wind slashed across her cheeks and chilled her to the bone. She stared down at her watch. It was well past seven. Well past the end of her shift and well after dark. She’d lost track of the time on her last case, completely forgetting that Sherlock was most likely waiting for her at the flat. She probably should have called him, but she’d expressly asked him not to answer the phone. To make matters worse, when she’d come out of Bart’s, the punishing wind and threat of rain had made it nearly impossible to get a cab, forcing her to take the Tube. Once on the train, she’d gotten lost in her thoughts of Sherlock and all that had happened the night before. So she missed her stop and had to walk an extra ten blocks in the cold to get home.

It wasn’t until she reached the door to her building that she remembered the Chinese food. “Ugh. Stupid girl,” she sighed through clenched teeth. And there was nothing in the fridge except a carton of ice cream of indeterminate age, a half-empty bottle of wine, and some moldy plastic containers. “I’ll just call the take-away,” she said, knowing that having it delivered was an annoying extra expense that she didn’t need.

Molly started up the stairs that led to her flat. Almost before she reached te hall she could smell someone’s delicious dinner and her stomach growled again.

“Maybe they’ll let me come over.” She pushed her key into the lock, but the door swung open of its own accord. That smell. That lovely cooking smell smacked her in the face as soon as she went inside. Something meaty with lots of spice. Suddenly it was as if she’d never eaten before and her mouth watered.

“Sherlock?” she called. “Are you here?”

There was no answer save for the crackling of the fire and soft music coming from the stereo. She hung up her coat and began wandering the flat, looking for some sign of him.

He wasn’t in the kitchen, but two plates and wine glasses had been set on the bar, complete with silverware and a set of chopsticks. She spied a large bag of takeaway from her favorite Chinese restaurant in the microwave.

“He must have gotten hit on the head. Or lost too much blood. It’s the only explanation.”

A cough from the bedroom tore her away from _Thoughtful Sherlock: International Man of Mystery_. She followed the noise into the bedroom where she found him standing in front of the window looking down at the street. At least, she assumed it was Sherlock. The person silhouetted in the dim moonlight was so unlike the Sherlock she had known for nearly eight years. He was wearing a close-fitting black jumper, high at the neck and narrow at the waist. He wore jeans that were stylishly ragged and clung to the narrow plane of his pelvis. His feet were bare, and his curly mop of hair that in the past had always been beaten into submission was now an unkempt tangle that spilled over his ears.

He didn’t turn when she threw her purse strap over the bedpost. “Sherlock?”

“It’s nearly eight o’clock,” he stated simply. “Your shift ended at five. Given the weather and the difficulty of getting a cab, plus traffic through midtown would have put you back here by quarter six at the latest. Even if you took the Tube, you should have been here a half hour ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry,” Molly said. “I didn’t know you were waiting. I guess I just lost track of the time. And I did have to take the Tube.”

“Am I also to assume that you walked from the station to the flat in the dark, on your own?”

“I do it all the time, Sherlock…”

“Not anymore you don’t,” he said. “This is the dodgy end of the street. God knows what could happen to you. I won’t let you put yourself at risk this way. I won’t allow it, Molly Hooper!”

Molly chuckled at his anger, assuming that it was some kind of sarcastic joke. “You won’t allow it, eh?”

But he was dead serious. His eyes had grown dark and the shadows etched out ominous features. “No. I won’t. You’re too important. And this misguided guilt of yours has made you reckless. It’s as if you believe you deserve to be assaulted in the street.”

“Since when are you so concerned?”

“Since now,” he replied simply.

Molly wasn’t sure how to react, so she finally just nodded in agreement. “All right, Sherlock. I think your time abroad has made you paranoid, but all right. I’m sorry. Let’s just have something to eat. I brought you a prescription of antibiotic, but you need to eat something before you take it.”

“I’m afraid I just can’t accept your apology.”

His response caught her off guard and she laughed. “Well, there really isn’t much I can do about that, is there?” she said, pulling off her cardi.

He crossed to where she stood in an instant and took the cardigan from her. He tossed it aside. “Sit down.”

Without hesitation, Molly obeyed. Something about his deepening gaze and the tension in his jaw told her that he was not kidding and would not be refused. She stared up at him as if he’d finally taken leave of his senses. When she met Sherlock the first time, he’d been high as a kite. Maybe he was back on the cocaine.

“Do you remember what you said last night, Mouse?”

“Which thing?” She felt her cheeks burning, remembering her blubbering fit she’d had the night before.

“You said that when you were a child, that the only thing that comforted you when you were feeling guilty was punishment.”

“Okay… sure. I guess so.”

“I assert that the same principles could apply here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I propose an experiment, Mouse.”

“An experiment?”

“Yes. For science, you know. And for the sake of your sanity and well-being. I can’t very well take off for parts unknown without being assured that you’re going to be all right. I’d be lost without my pathologist.”

Her belly flipped over. _His_ pathologist. “I… I’m listening.”

Sherlock began to pace, seeming to enjoy his reasoning. “I believe that you will be able to let go of all this guilt and shame over lying about my death through domination and punishment.”

“Jesus…” Molly sighed. “I’m so tired, Sherlock. Don’t take the piss…”

“Just hear me out, Molly. This morning, when I had you blindfolded, how did you feel?”

She thought about his question a moment. The truth was, she’d had so many feelings about their breakfast game that she wasn’t sure how to separate them. At first she’d felt like a complete idiot, lying in bed and being fed like an infant, completely out of control. But then, something happened. "I guess… relieved. Relieved to not have to worry about anything. To let someone else take care of my needs and wants for a bit.” She chuckled. “It’s been a long time since I’d felt that. It was nice.”

“You were relaxed. Confident that I would take care of you.”

Molly nodded in agreement. “I could breathe for the first time in months.”

“Submitting to another, if done with respect and safety, can be very therapeutic. Letting someone else make all the decisions, have all the control. It’s only logical. And of course, as the submissive, you would have all the power. A word from you and everything stops.”

Molly opened her mouth, trying to think of the right words to say and coming up short. Evidently, he’d given this a lot of thought. “I suppose.”

“As for the punishment aspect, you were clever enough to come up with that one on your own.”

Suddenly it dawned on her. “Dear God. This is that Adler woman isn’t it?”

Sherlock paused, fingers poised under his chin as he thought this over. “Happy coincidence. I had forgotten this was her area of expertise.”

“Interesting,” Molly mused. “You forgot Irene Adler.”

He sighed. “I didn’t forget her, but I think you all overestimated my interest. True, she was a formidable opponent and no doubt attractive, but all of her cleverness was quite shallow, truth be told. I did learn one thing from her, though.”

“Which was?”

“I’m not a submissive.”

Molly started to question him, but thought better of it. Assuming that he’d had some kind of sexual liaison with The Woman, she didn’t want to know. “And you think I am?”

“You think you are. And there’s nothing wrong in that. Again, it’s the more powerful position in the relationship if you think about it.”

“You’re forgetting one thing, Sherlock.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Relationships like the one you’re proposing are inherently sexual.”

“And?”

“And… I mean… you and I…”

“Yes?”

“We aren’t… I mean, you don’t… or wouldn’t…”

“What makes you think I wouldn’t?” he asked, a dangerous smirk playing on his lips.

Suddenly there wasn’t quite enough air in the room. Was he really suggesting that they enter into a sexual relationship for a scientific experiment? Or some kind of weird psychological treatment? It was true that Molly had spent many a night fantasizing about having sex with Sherlock Holmes, but she wasn’t sure that she was interested in doing it for science.

“I’m not an experiment,” she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Sherlock turned and went to her, kneeling before her. “Oh… Oh Molly no. I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

He took her hands and held them tightly in his own. “First, I’m not suggesting that you have to do anything that you don’t want to. Sexual or otherwise. Second, this is all about you and helping you. And Molly… I do care about you.”

“I don’t want to be a subject. Or just this… hollow thing that you occasionally fall on top of.”

Sherlock’s eyes softened as he gazed up into her face. He seemed to be considering his words carefully. Definitely a first. “Molly… I’m not sure that I can ever be…what you want me to be. I don’t know if I’m even capable. But I promise that I won’t hurt you. Whatever happens is entirely up to you. I’ll even keep all of my clothes on.”

Molly smirked. “Let’s not be hasty.”

“Funny girl,” he said. “So what do you think about my proposal?”

“I’m not sure. I mean… how much of that book did you read?”

“That book of yours? Oh it was ridiculous. I threw it out.”

Molly giggled and brushed her fingers through his hair, pushing it away from his eyes. “Oh, Sherlock. Don’t ever change.”

“Unlikely. I’ve been this way since birth. So what do you think?”

Molly’s heart pounded in her chest and she could feel every muscle in her body throbbing with tension. What did he mean by punishment? Would he hurt her? Was there going to be sex? Was there going to be a riding crop involved? Would he have her eating things out of the bins? It was true that she’d always had a curiosity about such things, but she would have never in a million years asked a lover to tie her up. She’d read this book once about an S&M relationship where the submissive had been fitted with a bridle and made to crawl on all fours. Would he endeavor to embarrass her in front of other people?

“I don’t know…”

“I promise that I won’t hurt you or make you feel bad. I won’t humiliate you or force you to do anything you don’t want to. Everything, every bit of it is up to you. For just this weekend, three days. Then I’ll be gone and if you wish it, we’ll never talk about it again. It will be our little secret.”

“I’m done with keeping your secrets,” she replied.

“Come on, Mouse. Be brave. Let me lead you out of your darkness.”

Molly heaved a sigh, but finally nodded. “All right, Sherlock. I’ll… I’ll try.”

He stood up quickly in a single, lithe movement and offered her his hand. “Good. Now stand up and take your clothes off.”


	4. A Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly discovers the meaning of "happiness is a warm bath."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I own none of these characters.

_After the fifth cab sped away from the curb with someone else inside, Molly couldn’t help but notice the Tube station just down the block. If she hurried, she could make the next train and be home in ten minutes. Of course, she had promised him that she wouldn’t ride the Tube on her own after dark anymore. It was sweet how he worried, even if it was a little paranoid of him._

_Molly had the thought that no one knew Sherlock the way she did. Not even John. Over the last year she’d learned so much about his secret self. How scared he was that even if he was able to come home, John would hate him for lying. How the last time he’d gotten in a jam where death had been almost certain, he’d called Mycroft to say goodbye. How even though people thought he was kind of a prick and he was angered by their stupidity, Sherlock longed to be liked. When people called him a freak, it hurt him. How he secretly liked children._

_Her phone started vibrating angrily in her pocket. He was getting impatient._

_OoOoOo_

“Pardon?” Molly said, watching as he stood and began to pace.

“Take your clothes off.”

Molly felt her cheeks burst into flames. She was glad of the dim light so that he couldn’t see the red splotches crawling up her neck and into her face. “What? You mean… now?”

“Why not?”

“Well…” she chuckled nervously. “I just didn’t…”

“No time like the present.” Molly kept staring, so Sherlock kept talking. “If it’s any comfort, I’m a scientist. It isn’t like I haven’t seen it all before.”

“I’m not sure that makes me feel any better,” Molly sighed. “He stood there, arms crossed over his chest and looking immoveable for several moments before she gave in. She began to unbutton her blouse, but her hands were trembling so badly that her fingers kept getting tangled in the buttonholes.

“Dear Lord, are you having an earthquake?” he asked, turning her around to face him.

Molly’s eyes fluttered as she inhaled deeply. He smelled so good. She’d always admired the clean, masculine scent of his skin, but this was something different. A combination of the fire in the lounge, the earthy polished wood under their feet, and tobacco.

She dared not look at his face as he pushed the blouse from around her shoulders and let it fall on the floor behind. The shapeless, virginal cotton bra seemed to accentuate the fact that she wasn’t very well-endowed in that department. Suddenly, Molly had a flash of the previous Christmas. _“To compensate for the size of her mouth and breasts.”_ Was that what he was thinking now? That she was flat-chested and frumpy? She was almost positive that Irene Adler had never owned a white t-shirt bra in her life. Even worse, when she pushed the loose black trousers over her nearly non-existent hips, she was left with pink boyshorts that had tiny little purple dots all over them. They had also been washed a thousand times, so they were stretched out in weird places. Molly wanted to cross her arms over her entire body at once.

“Don’t hide yourself from me, Mouse. It’s really much easier if I don’t have to tie your hands behind your back.”

“But I…”

“Perhaps this would be the perfect time to tell you that you shouldn’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

She nodded, focusing her eyes on Sherlock’s toes so that she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye.

“And there’s no need for all of these stuttering protestations,” he added. “You’re really very beautiful.”

Molly’s head snapped up at his words and she nearly blurted, “Don’t make fun of me.”

“Does it surprise you to hear me say that?” he asked, sliding his fingertips under a thin bra strap. It was the one that always dug into her shoulder and he soothed the irritated skin with soft strokes. “Go ahead. You can answer.”

“Well… yes, actually. It does. You’ve made it pretty clear all these years that you weren’t attracted to me.” She still couldn’t look at him. Her confessions were raw.

“Did I?”

“Well I thought so.”

“Is that why you thought you didn’t count? That my feelings about you, friendly or otherwise, were dependent on your physical appearance?”

“Isn’t that what most men think?”

Sherlock snorted. “I’m not most men.”

“You sure said a mouthful.”

She stole a glance upward and saw him stifle a smile. “Just a tidbit of information, Mouse. My lack of romantic entanglement does not imply that I am a sexless drone with no libido to speak of. It is, in fact, practiced.”

“You thought Irene Adler was beautiful.”

“I thought she was interesting. Her physical appearance had little to do with it. And did you ever stop to think that the reason why I was so dismissive of you was not because I felt nothing for you, but because I felt too much? I have always prided myself on being able to divorce myself from all emotion, believing that emotion would cause me to ignore important details. To allow myself to feel for you would have undermined everything.”

“So why now?”

Sherlock smiled. A true, Sherlock-y smile that was so genuine that immediately all of Molly’s fears melted away. “Technically I’m dead. Who gives a fuck about rules or details? I’m not really me.”

“Can I ask one more question?”

He sighed and nodded. “One.”

“Out there in world… who are you?”

He chuckled and kissed the crest of her forehead gently. “I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

“Oh.”

“Now, follow me.” Immediately his demeanor changed and Molly obeyed. “First things first. Should you wish for everything to stop, simply say ‘pejorative’ and everything stops without question. Understood?”

“Yes.”

She followed him into her bathroom. This room was the reason she’d rented this flat in the first place. It was pretty large for a one-bedroom and had this amazing round bathtub that was so deep she could nearly submerge her entire body. Sherlock had lit candles around the room, keeping with the dim firelight theme. It worked like a charm, though. She wasn’t self-conscious in this light. There were plenty of shadows. She could smell the spicy scent of bath oil and steam rose from the surface of the water.

“You’ll need this out of your way,” he said, taking her long braid and fastening it into a knot on top of her head.

“Ow!” she exclaimed as he pulled at her hair, trying to get it into the hairpin.

“Already?” he asked. “Get into the tub. But be careful, the porcelain is slippery.” Molly looked down and realized that she was still wearing her underclothes. She said a little prayer of thanks for the dim light and turned away from him. She slipped her bra off and threw it into the corner. She was trying to figure out a good way to keep one arm crossed over her chest while she wiggled out of her knickers. It was clumsy and she kept her eyes closed, but she managed it. Sherlock seemed unbothered by her nudity and offered his arm to help her step into the warm water. She seethed as the hot water touched her skin, but as she sunk into it she could feel her muscles relaxing. “Is it too hot?”

“No,” she said.

“Good.” He reached over her head and handed down a small bottle of soap and a loofah sponge. “Here, wash yourself off. You’ve been working all day.”

Molly took the offered items and began scrubbing her skin. The soap smelled of lavender and rose and it was slippery in her hands. She felt like such a fool as she splashed, nearly dropping the bottle into the water. She was very aware that he was watching her bathe.

After a few minutes, he strode over to the toilet and sat down. He pulled a cigarette from the pack on the counter and lit it. Ordinarily, Molly would have objected to someone smoking in her flat, but for some reason cigarette smoke just went with Sherlock.

“That’s enough,” he said. He stood and flicked the butt of his cigarette into the toilet. Molly immediately dropped the loofah sponge and instinctively crossed her arms over her chest. “What did I tell you about that?”

Molly knew exactly what he was talking about and put her arms by her sides. “I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be sorry. Be better.” Before she could reply, he pulled his sweater off and threw it aside. Suddenly, the moist air evaporated, making it hard to breathe. Her eyes went wide and followed the lines of sinew across his shoulders and chest. The cut she’d sewn the night before stood out in harsh relief across his stomach, but if it caused him any pain he didn’t let on. And then the corners of his pelvis that poked over the low waistline of the jeans… for a moment Molly couldn’t move. She could only stare at his body, wondering when she would finally get to touch it.

“Get up on your hands and knees,” he said, kneeling by the tub. “Again, be careful.”

Her lust was replaced by a swift rush of panic. From that position there would be no hiding. Should she refuse? Could she refuse? And then there was this curiosity to find out what might happen next.

“Didn’t you hear me? Get up on your hands and knees. Please don’t make me ask you again.”

Every part of her was shaking, but she obeyed. The safe word was poised on her tongue, held at the ready for reassurance. The cool air hit her skin and she was shivering, though it most likely wasn’t just the chill of the room that made her tremble. Sherlock took up the loofah sponge and squeezed warm water over her spine. The trickles of water slid across her back, tickling over each tiny bone. Mischievous little beads that slipped all the way down to pool in the hollow at the base of her spine. After a few seconds the shallow divot overflowed and Molly shivered as the warm water ran between the folds of her ass and down her thighs. Just a gentle, torturous caress that made her shift her legs further apart.

Sherlock poured a bit of the slippery soap on to the loofah and began rubbing it over her back and shoulders. The rough texture felt lovely as it scraped across her overheated skin and the soft lavender scent worked like a tranquilizer. She almost forgot what a precarious position she was in and lost herself in the sensations.

Suddenly the loofah ran down her back and along the backs of her thighs. The suds clung to her skin. She could feel them popping in those intimate, hidden places. Over and over he swiped the sponge carefully along all those places she hadn’t been able to reach. Molly could feel herself leaning into his strokes, but she couldn’t stop. It had been ages since anyone had touched her this way and while Sherlock was almost clinical in his ministrations, there was a swampy heat that had settled between her legs, pushing her to want more.

“Squeaky Mouse,” he teased. “I can only imagine the lovely sounds you’ll make when I spank you.”

Molly gasped and looked back over her shoulder. Had she heard him correctly? Perhaps his time away had taken its toll and he truly had taken leave of his senses.

"Oh yes. I fully intend to punish you, Mouse. I haven't forgotten your earlier indiscretions. But first things first."

Molly's heart began to pound. What did he mean? Surely he wasn't planning to spank her like an unruly child. Clearly she hadn't heard him correctly. Real people didn't engage in that kind of thing. Fetishes were for people with black lipstick and nipple piercings, not shy pathologists or their "not exactly" boyfriends. She could actually feel the safe word forming on her lips. All she need do was whisper it and he would stop. And possibly leave. Of course, her lady parts were screaming for him to continue. Something about the way he said the words set her insides thrumming.

Slowly, he dragged the loofah sponge up the inside of her leg and down again. He was so close to where she most wanted to feel his touch, but he purposefully avoided it. He wasn't going to let her off so easily. Molly wished that she could see him watching her as he teased. She could tell that he was cataloguing every reaction.

When he finally touched her sex with the edge of the sponge she nearly screamed. Everything was so sensitive. Her body was like a swollen bud ready to burst into bloom. And he knew it. Molly could almost feel him smiling behind her back. Her back was arched and she leaned into him. She knew she looked like a cat in heat, but she didn't care, she just wanted him to continue.

Sherlock was methodical as he parted the lips of her sex and rubbed the sponge along the inner walls. It was just a gentle friction but she wanted more. She wanted him to toss the sponge aside and slide his long, sinewy fingers inside of her. But that didn't seem right. It didn't seem like Sherlock at all. None of this did. Maybe the man she'd once known really was dead leaving behind this sexy doppleganger. Or maybe this was all a dream. A feverish and vivid dream like so many that she’d had so many nights before.

“Please don’t stop…” she whimpered, forgetting that she wasn’t supposed to speak. His hand slipped higher, drawing the sponge over the sensitive nub of flesh that was the center of her pleasure. She moaned softly as he rubbed the rough surface over it again and again.

Suddenly everything stopped. Molly was jerked back to reality so quickly that it made her dizzy. He dropped the sponge into the water and stood up. “Stand up,” he said. His voice was even. He was obviously completely unaffected.

At first Molly wasn’t sure she could do it. Her legs were trembling with tension. And then there was the thought that if she moved, the slight friction of her thighs rubbing together would make for a very embarrassing walk across the room. Luckily, he offered his arm to help. She took it and pulled herself to her feet. A wave of dizziness made her head spin and she nearly went down on her knees. But just like always, Sherlock was there to catch her. He hoisted her into his arms and carried her limply into the bedroom.


	5. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly finds pleasure in pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your love and comments. This story is really saving my writing life right now. I'm really stuck on my professional stuff and this is providing me an outlet as well as giving me encouragement to go on. You have no idea how much that means to me. Thank you!!! 
> 
> As always, I own none of the characters.

Sherlock laid Molly gently across the bed and walked away without a word. She wanted to sit up and call out to him but she simply didn't have the energy at the moment. The unrequited arousal had wrung every last bit from her, like water from a sponge. Her legs and wrists ached and inside she was still throbbing. The muscles deep within tightened as if they were still trying to hold on to the ghost of sensation. She wanted to roll over and press her center against the coverlet as she done as an adolescent. Anything to calm the storm of lust raging inside of her. She wondered how long he would leave her here—wanting and wet. Was their encounter as sensual and sexual to him as it was to her? Perhaps he was in the next room trying desperately to slow his heartbeat or soothe a painful erection. No. Surely not. Sherlock Holmes was a man of logic and reason, not emotion. He didn’t feel things that way. He didn’t act on impulses.

Molly lay so still. If she moved, that rush of ecstasy would come back full force and she’d never calm herself down. She rolled over on her back and closed her eyes. She secretly prayed that the drafty room would bring her to her senses. Or at least cool the uncomfortable heat that had settled between her legs.

“Mmm…” she whimpered. Her nipples beaded painfully and she covered them with her hands to warm them. Of course, the hard tips weren’t really due to the temperature. Her mind drifted back to the bath. The suggestive way in which he’d cleaned her most intimate parts. Molly absently drew her fingertips around the areola, almost without realizing. In her mind’s eye they were Sherlock’s hands caressing them. Those overly large hands of his that were so rough with callouses from years of playing the violin. Throughout their encounter, he’d never touched her. Not even once. Only through the sweet and sneaky little loofah. She longed for his barehanded touch. She wanted to feel how his skin felt against hers. Would he slide his hands gently over her breasts or grip them roughly, forcing the nipples to attention and torturing them with rough nips of his teeth? Or perhaps just a teasing pinch. Maybe he would soothe them with languorous sweeps of his tongue. Molly pinched the hardened buds between her fingers, pulling at them gently until she gasped.

The light kiss of pain shot straight to her center, drawing a moan from her throat. She couldn’t help it. She had to touch herself. Just a little. It would be enough to calm the heat. She brought her fingers to her lips, kissing them as if they were him, and then sliding her tongue around the tips. They wandered across her belly and circled her navel, leaving a moist trail. She imagined they were his kisses, just tiny flickers of his tongue along her skin, tasting her. Lower her fingers traveled, finding the hood of her sex.

She was almost afraid of what would happen. Like she might completely fall apart in a fit of orgasmic bliss. He’d come back in to find her limp and lifeless, having fallen victim to _la petite mort_. Letting her thigh fall to one side, she delved lower, drawing her fingers up and down the dewy petals. She was so aroused that little drops of her essence wetted her thighs and clung to the downy hair covering her opening. When her fingertips slipped inside, it was almost an accident, but it felt so good. In her feverish fantasy they weren’t hers, but Sherlock’s, exploring deeper inside. The tiny button of flesh that was so sensitive and swollen, shuddered as her thumb brushed against it. Soon she was moaning with the pleasure of it, finding a rhythm that echoed the beating of her heart.

“I’m almost tempted to let you finish.”

Molly gasped as her eyes popped open and she could see him standing over her. How much had he seen? Her cheeks were on fire and tears stung the corners of her eyes. “I… uhm…”

“Tsk tsk… how very scandalous of you, Mouse.”

“I couldn’t help it, Sherlock—“

“I didn’t say you could speak!” he said, his voice raised just enough to startle her. “I leave you alone for five minutes and when I come back, you’re rutting away like a bitch in heat. It’s as if you have no control whatsoever. It’s very naughty of you. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

Molly started to reply, but her mouth snapped shut. Was she supposed to answer?

“Go ahead.”

“I’m sorry… I just couldn’t… help myself…” Her voice quavered so badly that she was afraid he wouldn’t be able to understand. “I feel so…” No. She couldn’t confess how he made her feel. It would be too humiliating. She was already here, laid bare before him, but this was too much. Too intimate.

He sat down beside her, softening his gaze. He held out his hand and she took it, sitting up. She kept her eyes downcast, still not quite sure how to face him after what he’d witnessed. “You feel so?”

She shook her head. “No… I can’t. I can’t say that…”

Sherlock smiled. “You’re lying here naked after having opened your body up to me so completely, yet the only secret you can’t give up is your heart.”

“Are you angry?” she whispered.

He chuckled lightly. “I understand the thought process completely.” He brushed a lock of hair away from her face and let his fingertips trace her jawline. “You have many secrets.”

She nodded, nuzzling against his hand.

“Secrets are sometimes necessary, but nevertheless a very bad game indeed.”

“I hate them,” she said. “I hate keeping secrets. I’ve nearly told John so many times… that you’re still alive. But it would be a betrayal and you know I would never do that. Not to you, Sherlock.”

“I know you wouldn’t. I trust you, Mouse.”

Molly stared into his eyes. They pled with him to help her. To draw this guilt out of her like a poison. “Punish me.” She almost choked on the words. She was so afraid of them, but she had no choice. It was the only way she could find the light.

He didn’t say a word, but drew her into his lap. Not like a naughty child ‘assuming the position’ but cradling her like a lover. He pressed his lips to her temple as he shifted her weight so that her head rested in the crook of his shoulder and her body lay across him. Sherlock brushed his hand along her side, tracing the curve of her hip. He nudged her leg a little higher, caressing the back of her thigh. Those musicians’ callouses scraped along her skin and felt exactly as she had imagined. Goosebumps broke out in their wake and every microscopic cell was alive and waiting.

When his hand came down on her ass the first time, the sharp sting was a surprise. She almost laughed to release the tension that had been building. She bit her lip instead, bracing for the next blow. When he struck again, it was in the same spot and she gasped. This time it hurt. Her heart pounded in her chest, wondering if that was the worst. As he spanked her again and again, the sting grew to a heat and then a throb. He varied the location of each smack so that before long, her ass, thighs, and sex were warm and sore.

“You’re bearing it all so well, Mouse,” he whispered against her ear. His fingertips lightly stroked over the punished flesh, drawing soft whimpers. “And I was right about those pretty little noises you make.” He emphasized his words with another series of sharp swats.

She whined his name softly into his arm. She knew that in a moment her tears would be wetting his bare flesh. And she wanted it. She wanted to cry. She needed to let all of this out.

As if he were reading her mind, he rained another succession of spanks on both sides. He didn’t give her any time to catch her breath, letting it go on and on until her whimpers became cries and then sobs.

“I’m sorry, John…” she blurted finally. “I’m so sorry for everything…” Her words trailed off in a torrent of uncontrollable cries.

“Molly…” Sherlock whispered, pulling her into his arms and rocking her gently against his chest. “It’s all right. You’re all right.”

“No… No I’m terrible…”

“Of course you aren’t. I’m the one that’s terrible. I’m terrible for asking this of you, but there was no other way.” He kissed her forehead. “I hope you’ll forgive me someday, Molly.”

Molly looked up at him, tears streaming over her cheeks. “I already have, Sherlock.” Before she could stop herself, she was stretching up to kiss his mouth. To her surprise he didn’t pull away, but kissed her back. At first it was just a gentle caress, but then he teased the tip of his tongue along the crease and slipped his tongue inside. She opened her mouth, breathing him in and letting him steal her breath. He tasted heavenly and it made her hungry for more. Soon their tongues were mingling, swirling around one another.

“Touch me,” Molly said when she was able. “Please... I’ll beg if you want me to.”

He licked her lips and pulled away. “That won’t be necessary, Mouse.”

OoOoOo

_Molly emerged from the station and spied her flat down the block. The lights were still on and she breathed a sigh of relief. He was still there. Sherlock would never knowingly leave her lights on if he wasn’t there. It was a tic. She’d teased him about it a thousand times._

_As she got closer to the flat, she could see the outline of someone standing in the window. Her heart gave a leap as she realized it was him. She could see the faint outline of his smoke swirling toward the lamp at his side. She wanted to run. Suddenly, she couldn’t get there fast enough. Her body was already trilling with the anticipation of seeing him again. It had been so long. Perhaps this time he’d be able to tell her that he was home to stay._


End file.
